


When Wayward Stars Collide

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Asexuality, F/M, Fluff, Guardian Angels, M/M, Multi, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:18:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock realizes he is in love with John he calls, frightened, on his childhood Guardian Angel, Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You haven’t called for me in a very long time,” the voice was soft, not more than a whisper behind Sherlock’s right ear, before the man materialized to sitting on the bench next to him. Sherlock didn’t turn his head, merely nodded.

“You’ve changed, Castiel. What happened to the vessel you used to use?”

Castiel’s face scrunched at the verb ‘to use.’ He always thought he’d been better than that to his vessels. “He was sent to war and shot. I didn’t think it my place, anymore, to ask so much of him.”

“And where is he now?”

Castiel frowned at Sherlock, faint wings curling around Sherlock’s shoulder, tapping at his tension. “You’re avoiding the subject, Sherlock.” Sherlock didn’t say anything. Castiel sighed. “I erased his memories of me. I don’t know if it worked completely, he might even remember me if he saw me again but I very much doubt that will happen.”

“And his name?”

Castiel’s frown deepened. “I don’t remember that myself, Sherlock, and even if I did, you know I wouldn’t tell you.”

Sherlock nodded. “That’s fair, I suppose.” The two sat in companionable silence for a few moments more, shoulders barely touching. Castiel was slouched forward, hands clasped as he watched pigeons pick at the sidewalk.

“I’m in love, Castiel.” It wasn’t much more than a whisper, words just hovering over the edge of sound. Castiel sat back straight again, head turning a perfect ninety degrees to assess Sherlock’s form. “His name is John,” Sherlock paused. For the first time since Castiel arrived, Sherlock turned to look at his old friend’s face. It was weathered in places with bruises and wrinkles, as though he’d been in some recent and torturous fight. As usual his eyes gave no sign of judgment, just of gentle contemplation.

“I know – I have heard that your Father does not approve of such arrangements, but I cannot help it. John is…” Sherlock trailed off, turning to look forward again, expression not unlike Castiel’s. 

Castiel recognized the look. One of complete adoration, of the inability to describe the utter perfection of the one who was Made for you. He was certain he would meet John and that John would be flawed, would not understand his former Charge entirely, but Castiel saw the hopelessness, the feeling of being abjectly lost in the one you love, in Sherlock’s eyes. Anyone else would see it as sadness, but Castiel recognized it for what it was because he felt it too.

“My Father does not take notice of such arrangements,” Castiel tried his hardest to keep the bitterness he felt out of his voice. “He is, like me, utterly indifferent to sexual orientation.” Castiel shifted on the bench, forcing his gaze away of Sherlock and forward. It was now Sherlock’s turn to stare, to analyze the tired lines in his face connected to the ones of proud smiles; the bruises caused not only by the hateful hands of family members who long lost their love, but by the kind of ‘rough-housing’ supplied by friendships, the worry lines that were far too frequent to be simply about his own fate or the fate of heaven.

“What is his name?” Sherlock asked.

Castiel slouched over again, hands folded in a prayer position, fingers ghosting over his mouth. “Dean.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock did not tell John beforehand that they would be having a guest in their home, but as non-cliental vists were a rare thing for Sherlock, John didn't mind so much. Although, Sherlock's friend was a little...ecentric.

"What's your name?" John asked pleasantly, after making everyone a cup of tea. He waited as the man - tall, brown hair, five o'clock shadow, deep blue eyes, business attire and, of all things, a tan trench coat - inhaled the steam from his tea, eyes widening as the scent permeated the air he breathed. He sipped cautiously as it was still hot, but was clearly enamoured. John cleared his throat quietly, but the noise did not go unnoticed. The strange man looked up.

"My name is Castiel," he answered. He placed his teacup on the saucer and placed the ensamble delicately on his lap. He stared down at his tea, a large smile encompassing his face. "I quite enjoy this," he remarked, and looked up at John again. "You must drink a lot of tea, to get it so perfect."

John felt a fluttering in his stomach. "Yes, we do drink our fair share of tea here." Sherlock snorted, and John's brow knitted as he looked up to his companion, standing by the mantel with his hands clasped behind his back. "What?" he asked.

"John, you all but live on tea."

"As do you," he shot back, but with a smile. "When was the last time you ate?"

Castiel looked to Sherlock as well, worried. "Is this an area about which I should be concerned?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Pay no mind, Castiel. John takes good care of me."

John wasn't certain how to feel about the current exchange. It seemed as though Castiel thought John to be in charge of Sherlock, in charge of his well-being. Like John was a boarding school, Sherlock the student, and Castiel the worried parent. "How do you know Sherlock?" John asked.

Castiel, who had been stirring his tea, set the spoon on the saucer and took another sip, his beam breaking through on his face again. "I am a friend of Sherlock's from childhood."

John looked to Sherlock again in moderate surprise. "I didn't know you had any friends from childhood."

"Just the one," Sherlock replied, smiling softly at Castiel. John felt his stomach, previoiusly aflutter, knot itself. It was irrational, he knew, but he felt jealous that Sherlock would look so fondly at somebody. _Somebody other than me_ , he thought, but quickly erased the thought from his mind. Such thoughts were dangerous around Sherlock, who could read John as easily as a book.

Castiel's voice broke through the silence. "I really must tell Dean about this, when he arrives here."

John blinked rapidly. "Dean? Do you have a friend coming here?"

"Not your home, although I'm sure he'd be fascinated by the skull and your defaced wallpaper," Castiel clarified. "My friends, however - Dean and his brother Sam - have always wanted to see London."

"Are these roommates of yours?" John asked, unable and unwilling to identify the clench in his stomach. Some might call it hope.

Castiel considered the question, setting his now empty cup and saucer on the coffee table in front of him. He leaned forward to place his forearms on his knees and lace his fingers together in a manner that reminded John very much of Sherlock. A sharp pang of longing went through his stomach, and John felt the need to leave for fresh air. "In a fashion," Castiel finally replied. "They are colleagues, I suppose the word is."

"Oh," John said, not really paying attention. Cold sweat was starting to prickle at his shoulder blades. "And what is it that you do?"

"Well..." Castiel seemed hesitant. He caught John's eyes in his line of sight, and John found himself unable to look away. The eyes he saw in Castiel reminded him of his own in a way, in how dark they were. It was something women had always said they'd loved about John, and seeing them as part of another person he could understand why. They were difficult from interpret, yet filled with emotion. Calm, yet intense. They were hypnotic, and absolutely impossible to pull away from. Castiel sighed and shook his head, but the movement was so quick and without warning that John still hadn't looked away, and his attention was recaptured. "Dean calls it the family business," he said diplomatically. "Helping people, hunting things."

"Helping people? In what sense?"

Without blinking or hesitating, Castiel replied without issue. "I, for one, am an Angel of the Lord."


	3. Chapter 3

"So, why are we going to England again?" Sam asked. Except Sam knew exactly why they were going to England. He just liked to see Dean's face light up like a damn Christmas tree.

Exactly as planned, Dean's face turned a glorious shade of red. "We're going because Cas asked us to. End of story, Sam. No more damn questions." Sam smirked at the suitcase he was packing, silently plotting more ways to make Dean's life a living Hell. Not that he needed any more help with that, because _of course_ Dean would fall in love with a celestial being who seemed to posses no interest in sex and very little, if any, interest in romance. Sam let out a soft, amused huff as his smiled widened. "I saw that," Dean grumbled.

"Well, what do you want me to do, Dean? Cry?" Sam threw his hands up and out in surrender. "You hate flying, but I haven't heard you complain yet. You have no interest in visiting England, but Cas asks and suddenly it's your number one vacation spot."

"Shut your damn whore mouth," Dean hissed. Oh, if looks could kill. But Sam took the bait anyway.

"Dean, you are positively twitterpated." 

The black eye Sam recieved via flying television remote was totally worth it.

* * *

John let out a short laugh, a surprised smile on his face. It wasn't like Sherlock to pull pranks. "You're having me on," he said, shaking his head. "But seriously, Castiel. What is it you do?"

Castiel's brows furrowed and he looked up to Sherlock for support, before lowering his eyes to John's once more. "I am not...having you on." He said cautiously. "I am an Angel of the Lord. My Father sent me from Heaven to rescue Dean from Hell. Dean was chosen to be Michael's Vessel - well," Cas's eyes clouded over, lost in memories. "That is, until he refused and then the whole Apocalypse debacle happened -"

"Apocalypse?" John asked. He still seemed amused but his smile had faltered, as though his whole face had paused. "What... Sorry, what apocalypse?"

"Not an apocalypse, the Apocalypse, there was just the one -"

"Sherlock," John interrupted, face stony. He looked around at the walls, the floor, the desktop, anything but Castiel. "I need to speak to you for a moment. In the kitchen, please." He turned to Castiel smiling awkwardly and ingenuinely. "If you'll excuse us, Castiel?"

"Of course," Castiel responded, but his mind had already left. He was once again mesmerized by the tea, and it appeared he had not heard any of the hostility in John's voice.

John followed Sherlock's retreating back into the kitchen, eyes focusing on the small slip of white skin beneath Sherlock's inky culrs, the black spiralling almost wetly even when his hair was dry. John was trying so hard not to lose his composure, but the minute the two were out of Castiel's range of hearing, John lost it. "I know you don't believe in God or any other sort of higher power, but Jesus Christ, Sherlock, this isn't funny!"

Sherlock frowned at him, unclear as to the source of John's anger. "You think this is a joke?"

"Of course it is, Sherlock. But you've had your laugh now - did you really need to bring your weird American friend over here just to poke fun at me?"

"Castiel isn't weird," Sherlock bristled.

"Then he's just as much of an arse as you are. Who the Hell agrees to try and con some stranger they've never met before -"

"We aren't playing a joke on you, John," Sherlock replied softly. John raised his head and saw the hurt in Sherock's eyes. He'd never seen Sherlock look so sad before, not when they were this close and Sherlock had no reason to lie.

More softly, John asked, "Well, then - Sherlock, is Castiel a little...sick?" 

The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned up slightly. "Castiel?" Sherlock called. John's eyebrows raised. "Castiel, I believe John may need a little...proof, that you are who you say you are."

Castiel crept into the kitchen quietly, edging past Sherlock to stand before John. John tilted his head upward, defiantly, to match Castiel's eyes. But Castiel wasn't looking at him with judgment, or pity, or anger. His cool facade maintained in place as the pools of his eyes were filled with a shocking crystal, his skin glowed pink and the shadows of monstrous wings filled up the kitchen. The electronic items in the kitchen buzzed in his presence and the lights flickered. When Castiel covered his nature again, blank expression floating back into place, John fainted.


End file.
